


From Gray To Golden

by CariadWinter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 00:33:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CariadWinter/pseuds/CariadWinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets the surprise of his life and can't decide whether to throw a punch, scream, or cry.  He might just do all of the above because yes, Sherlock, it's a bit not good...</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Gray To Golden

It was hot; the kind of heat that scorched the skin and burned right down to the marrow. There was no wind, no relief. There were only miles upon miles of sand and rock and war. Camp Bastion was one of Her Majesties army bases, located in the northwest section of the Helmand Province of Afghanistan. It housed over twenty-eight thousand people – British, American, Estonian, Danish, and Afghan alike. It was best known for its busy airfield and field hospital… of which one Captain John Watson was in residence.

Coming back from Afghanistan, being invalided home physically and mentally broken; John had thought that the lowest point of his life. There’d been sleepless nights and depression. There’d been that sense of, ‘ _What good am I to anyone anymore?_ ’. Sherlock Holmes had changed all of that though. Without even meaning to, he’d picked John up piece by piece and he’d put him back together again. He’d poured the color back into John’s dull, gray existence. Sherlock had given John purpose… then he’d taken it all away again. Sherlock had played the game against someone – not stronger, not even smarter – just someone who’d had nothing to lose. The only thing Jim Moriarty had wanted by the end had been Sherlock’s undivided attention and his life. The madman had gotten both.

For months after Sherlock’s suicide John hadn’t been able to close his eyes without seeing the man jumping… falling. Sherlock’s final words had played over and over for him. John had crumbled at the thought of his own; the last conversation they’d had before the roof. John had been so angry. He’d been fed up with Sherlock’s and Moriarty’s sick game. He’d lashed out, afraid for Mrs. Hudson and horrified at Sherlock’s lack of interest. John had called him a machine and only after it had been too late had he seen the ruse. Sherlock had been protecting him. Damn him! He’d been trying to protect John and all Sherlock had left behind was an empty shell.

John had fled Baker Street after the funeral. He’d tried to stay for Mrs. Hudson, but in the end, the memories had driven him away. He’d felt as though he’d been suffocating. Lestrade had kept in contact. They’d mourned Sherlock together for a while even though there had still been a little anger left boiling in John’s belly at Lestrade’s betrayal. So many had been so quick to believe that Sherlock had been a fake; that he’d been barking mad and guilty of the things that Moriarty had set him up for. Donovan and Anderson had gone chomping at the bit like rabid dogs after a bone. Lestrade had tried at least. He’d tried and John, eventually, had been able to appreciate and even understand the delicate situation Lestrade had found himself in.

There’d still been a hole in John’s life though and eventually, after a year of feeling as though he were simply just _existing_ again, he’d fled London altogether. Sherlock had helped him overcome the limp and with his physical health back in order, there’d really been only one choice left to him in his mind. He’d gone back to Afghanistan; not as a soldier, no, but he was once more a doctor in Her Majesties Armed Forces. John wanted to help people. He’d needed to be back in the thick of things or go mad from the hollow left in his heart.

That had been two years ago.

“Dr. Watson!” someone called out and John stopped just outside his office door; his hand on the knob. When he looked around, he was greeted with the sight of a young nurse, Corporal Winslow, coming towards him. John smiled and let his hand slip away from the door. It was late and he was at the end of his shift, but he would make time for her. The work they did and the war going on around them kept them all at the ready and always on their toes.

“I’ve got those X-rays you ordered, Sir,” Winslow stated after coming to a stop in front of him. “The lab is still working on the blood work. I know it’s the end of your shift, Sir, and I was going to pass these and the patient’s chart on to Dr. Harper, but I know how you are about finishing up. Figured I should update you and ask what you’d like me to do, Sir.”

John’s tired smile grew a little and he had to think for a moment. Normally, yes, if he was seeing to a new patient he didn’t like just handing them off at the start of things. He wanted to get to the diagnoses first and start treatment. Even afterwards, John always kept a close eye on anyone that had come under his care. He was coming off thirty-six hours straight though and his eyes were starting to cross. He was afraid he’d do more harm than good if he didn’t get some rest.

“I think passing those along to Dr. Harper would be a solid idea,” he finally replied. “Just let her know that if she has any questions I’ll be bunking in my office tonight. Though I think my notes on the chart are pretty thorough.”

Winslow nodded, offered a quick “Yes, Sir”, and then turned to head back down the hall. John watched her go, then sighed and moved into his office. The only light in the dark room was shining through the shaded window behind his desk and John slipped out of his lab coat before turning and flicking on the overhead light. The sofa in his office was comfortable enough and he always kept a fresh uniform to change in to when he didn’t make it back to his quarters.

He was half way across the room, coat in hand, before he realized he wasn’t alone. There was someone already occupying the sofa. John could see the silhouette of the man out of the corner of his eye, sitting there… watching him. The coat slipped from his fingers, his hand beginning to shake horribly. John’s heart was pounding, thumping hard against the backs of his ribs and it was suddenly very hard to breathe.

“Hello, John.”

The voice was deep; a delicious, familiar almost growl that made John’s pulse jump and the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He shook his head; unwilling to believe it. “No.”

“John,” Sherlock tried again and John watched from the corner of his eye as the man stood.

The room spun a little and John felt as though he might sick up all over the place. This wasn’t happening. Gods be praised if it was, but _come on_! He’d watched the man jump from Bart’s roof and fall nearly four floors to the ground. He’d watched him _die_. He’d taken his bloody pulse for fuck’s sake! Sherlock had been dead. Dead, dead, dead. End of. 

John’s empty stomach was doing these horrid little flips and the spinning grew so bad that he felt the floor tilt beneath him. All over again, like the day Sherlock had jumped, there was a rushing sound in his ears and the world didn’t make sense. It didn’t bloody well make sense and this… “Oh god,” he croaked just before his knees buckled.

Sherlock was there, strong arms wrapping around him and guiding him safely to the floor. John was rocking back and forth slowly, his head shaking, and there was something soft pressed against his ear. Soft, barely whispered words were trying desperately to sink in and past the chaotic jumble that was John’s mind.

“Forgive me, John,” Sherlock murmured as he rocked along with John, his lips pressed to the other man’s ear. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

John’s head continued to shake back and forth, his eyes transfixed on the floor before his desk. “You were…” John’s mouth continued to move, but the words were caught in his throat. It felt like there was no air in his lungs to aid him.

“I know,” Sherlock said, as though he’d plucked the completed thought right out of John’s head. “A necessary evil, John, but a masquerade I wish had not been required. I had to say those things to you. I had to make you believe that I was gone. You would have died if I hadn’t. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would have died.” 

Sherlock grew quiet for a moment and John couldn’t stop himself from reaching up to grab on to the arm wrapped around his chest. It was solid and real and gave him something to ground himself with. If he could _feel_ Sherlock, if he could touch him, then he had to be there… didn’t he? It wasn’t just his exhausted mind playing tricks on him as it had done more than a few times over the past three years. John had seen Sherlock more than once. He’d seen the flash of a long, black coat or a mop of curly black hair and pale skin and for one moment… until reality had come crashing back in around him, Sherlock had been alive again. He’d been there and real and whole and John’s heart had soared. Then he’d crashed all over again. Again and again until he couldn’t bare it.

“I watched you die,” John mumbled softly, brokenly. “I watched you fall and I… you had no pulse and there was so much blood.”

“You had to think I was dead,” Sherlock told him. “Moriarty had men in place that would have killed all of you if I hadn’t jumped that day. He was wrong though, John. I figured it out. I worked out what his end game would be and I beat him. He thought he was so clever… thought he could push me into a corner and leave me no choice. I was smarter than him though. I had the whole scene set before he even stepped foot in Barts.”

“Had it all planned…” John echoed, his head nodding absently. The idea that Sherlock had planned his death, had fooled them all and then left John alone and mourning; it shoved the shock of his friend’s resurrection down until nothing but cold fury remained. John drug himself up off the floor and out of Sherlock’s arms.

“You planned this!” he bellowed. His face had gone pink with rage and John could feel the heat of his anger wrapping around him like a blanket. “You made me watch while you killed yourself and then what? What the hell were you thinking!?”

Sherlock followed John up from the floor and tried to reach for him again. “Don’t you see, John? It had to be done. There was no choice.”

“There’s always a choice!” John snapped back. “You could have told me what you were planning! You could have warned me! Instead you… you…” He was gasping, his heart racing painfully in his chest, and John had to take a few deep, calming breaths before he could continue. He looked at Sherlock; _really_ looked at him and along with the anger a new emotion emerged. Heartache. “You left me,” he stated simply, but there was no more bite to his words. He was no longer yelling. There was only pain and betrayal. “You died and you left me and it was all a lie.”

A mirthless, pitiful laugh forced its way out of John’s throat and he shook his head. “The best part of me died that day and to you it was all a game. Three years… three bloody years I wished for nothing but you and you…” John shook his head and turned away from him. He couldn’t look at him, couldn’t process any of it.

“Not a game, John,” Sherlock said, his hands closed on John’s arms, and he turned him to face him. “Your safety was never a game to me. I’d never… you’re all I have, John. I didn’t do this for Moriarty or for the game. He threatened to take you from me and I did the only thing I could think to do. I finished it. It wasn’t enough that he put a bullet in his own head. I had to bring down the whole organization. I had to put a stop to things once and for all. If I hadn’t, this would have never been over. You would have never been safe and I couldn’t… Don’t you see, John? It’s it obvious?”

John gave another dry chuckle and shrugged. “The only thing that’s been obvious to me for the past _three years_ is that you weren’t here. You… were… dead.” His voice broke on the final word and John squeezed his eyes closed. “You were dead.”

He was tugged then, into Sherlock’s arms and cradled against the man’s chest. The embrace was awkward. It was as though Sherlock didn’t really know what to do with his hands and John just sort of curled up into himself against him. Sherlock finally settled though, one hand on the back of John’s shoulder and the other at his lower back. He pressed his cheek to the side of John’s head.

“I told you once that I didn’t have friends,” Sherlock murmured and he turned his head _just so_ to allow his lips to brush over the skin at John’s temple. “I told you I had one friend. Well… I was wrong. You are my friend, John, but you’re so much more than that. I feel when I’m with you, John. I want things. I… _need_ things.”

John sniffed, realizing just then that there were tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes and they were steadily soaking in to the soft fabric of Sherlock’s shirt. “What things?” he asked; his tone unsure and trembling slightly.

There was a pause; as though it took a moment for Sherlock to figure out what it was exactly he was trying to say. No words followed right away. Sherlock merely raised his hand, tilted John’s head up and back, then smiled down at him. His hand cupped John’s cheek, his thumb brushing across his cheekbone. 

“I don’t get attached, John,” Sherlock began finally. “I’ve never gotten attached to anyone or anything. I’m crap at accommodating or even pretending to understand human emotions. You know that.” Sherlock smiled and there was something open about him suddenly; something vulnerable. “I got attached to you though, John. You walked into my life and got under my skin and I don’t know how to get you out again. The last three years… there were so many times that I just wanted to phone you, hear your voice, tell you that I was alive and okay. I wanted to apologize for leaving you the way I did. I didn’t mean to hurt you, John. I just… I didn’t see any other way. I only wanted to protect you because I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone dying for me. Especially you.”

John squeezed his eyes shut a second time. The implications were clear, at least to him, and there was no way he’d ever let Sherlock go now that he had him back. He’d forgiven him the moment he’d seen him standing before him alive and well. It didn’t mean he wasn’t angry though. The anger was still there, throbbing away right along with the hurt and damn it all he just wanted to grab Sherlock and shake the bloody dickens out of him. John didn’t though. Instead, he took a deep breath, got a hold of himself as best he could, and once again pulled out of Sherlock’s grasp.

“Why now?” John asked and opened his eyes to stare at him. “Is it over? Are you finally done with… with… this _thing_ between you and Moriarty?”

Sherlock stood silent for a moment and John could see now how very thin and tired his friend looked. There were dark circles underneath Sherlock’s eyes, his cheeks looked almost sunken, and his clothes hung off of him instead of fitting snuggly to his always thin frame. The man clearly hadn’t been taking care of himself. Not that that was a surprise to John. Sherlock, in the time that he had known him, had always been remiss in actually caring for himself. He’d simply left that up to Mrs. Hudson and John and even then he’d gotten indignant about it more often than not. 

“There’s one more,” Sherlock stated and John snapped his eyes back up to Sherlock’s face. “One more rat in the pack and then it’s finished. That’s… he’s part of the reason why I’m here.”

John’s eyebrow arched at that and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that so? And you what… you came all the way to Afghanistan because… he’s here? You actually need my help after three years of being dead and gone?”

Sherlock’s expression twisted into one of frustrated annoyance, as though John was being purposely obtuse and should have figured this all out on his own by now. “Well of course he’s here, John. Sebastian Moran was Moriarty’s right hand. He knows that I’ve been taking apart his boss’ network piece by piece, he knows I’m alive, and he’s knows…” Sherlock paused there, his eyes darting back and forth slightly as if he were studying John’s face. “He knew I’d come if I thought you were in danger.”

“Danger?” John repeated, his arched brow plummeting into a confused scowl. “You don’t actually think he’d try and get to me here do you? I’m in the middle of one of the biggest bloody military bases in Afghanistan. He’d be mad to try and kill me here.”

“He’s a sniper, John,” Sherlock replied. “He was the man behind those marvelous little red dots. Moran was always with Moriarty; always close by. They were…” Sherlock sighed and he brushed his hand back through his hair before letting his arm drop down by his side again. “Moran and I have been going round and round for some time now; one of us always one step behind. Sometimes I’m after him, sometimes he’s after me. I don’t… I always knew where you were and what you were doing, John. Mycroft kept me informed. He informed me of your return to Afghanistan and the second I knew that Moran was heading here, I knew I needed to get to you.”

John snorted, his body relaxed, and he shook his head. “You stupid, stupid, brilliant man,” he murmured and then stepped back in to Sherlock’s personal space. “It’s a trap, Sherlock. You have to know that and yet here you are.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched and he reached out to touch John as though he’d been starved for it. His hands gripped at John’s hips, fingers digging in for purchase, and he tugged him in even closer. “I’ll always come, John. It’s _you_.”

That one word and the way it fell off of Sherlock’s tongue did funny things to John’s insides. There were many different definitions for that word, many different ways that it could be used, and John didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what Sherlock was trying to say. 

“Yeah,” John breathed out and suddenly they were body to body, mouths so close that it was a crime they weren’t already touching. The whole world could have gone tits up at that point and neither of them would have noticed. 

John pressed his hands to Sherlock’s chest and then smoothed them up until they were pressed to either side of the man’s neck. “I’m still angry with you,” he murmured softly and Sherlock smiled.

“You’re always angry with me, John,” Sherlock mused softly.

John shook his head, but he was smiling. “How the hell are we going to do this, Sherlock?” he asked and the question was meant to encompass everything. How were they going to deal with Moran and how were they going to handle whatever it was that was happening between them?

Sherlock huffed out a small breath that feathered out against John’s face. “We’ll handle it as we always do, my Dear John,” he replied and Sherlock pressed their lips together in a short, soft, barely there kiss. “Together.”

John trembled at the word; maybe from the kiss as well, and _Gods yes_ he wanted this so badly that there were tears in his eyes again. “God how I’ve missed you, Sherlock,” he whispered and melted gladly in against him when Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around him. “Promise me you won’t ever leave again.”

“I promise, John,” Sherlock replied and he pressed another kiss to the top of John’s head. “Never again.”

John snuggled in closer, his own arms tightening around Sherlock’s shoulders. “That’s… that’s good,” he sighed and it was so much better than good, but John was simply too exhausted to do anything but stand there and hold on as tightly as possible. “Tomorrow you’ll tell me about Moran?”

Sherlock nodded against him. “Tomorrow,” he promised and turned them so that he could move them both over to the sofa. 

They curled up together; Sherlock on his back with John curled up against his side. The feeling was warm and wonderful and everything that John hadn’t realized he’d needed until just now. Things would be different this time around. Very different. Intimately, wonderfully, fantastically different. It would be something that they’d both need time with, but they’d figure it out together and that was all that mattered.

“I still might punch you in the morning you know,” John mumbled, already far too comfortable and halfway to sleep.

Sherlock gave a low hum of acceptance and turned so that his lips were pressed to John’s forehead. “I imagine that it would be a bit not good if you didn’t, John,” he replied. “I suppose I actually deserve it this time.”

John snorted his amusement. “You deserve it every time, Sherlock.” Sherlock just grunted at him and held him tighter. 

They stayed that way, wrapped up tightly in each other, until John simply could not force himself to stay awake any longer. They’d deal with Moran tomorrow. They’d deal with John’s position in the army, their relationship, and everything else in between. All that mattered now was that Sherlock was alive, they were together, and the world… even in the dead of night… was shining brightly again in all its brilliant, colorful glory.


End file.
